Stolen Magic(24)

Elodie’s appetite woke up, roared, and sped her feet. In a minute they’d be back in the great hall, and maybe His Lordship would be there.

But she and Master Robbie wouldn’t be able to speak openly. “What about the youngest bee, the one who was more distressed than anyone but Master Tuomo? The barber-surgeon put her arm around his shoulders.”

“Dror-bee? He comes from Zertrum.”

Three from Zertrum. Was that odd?

Master Robbie added, “He’s excitable. When he stands, he’s on his toes; when he sits at the table, he tilts into it. He talks to guests more than most bees do.”

“You notice as much as a mansioner.”

He looked pleased. “Mistress Sirka is sweet on him.”

“Sweet on a bee?” Bees couldn’t marry unless they stopped being bees.

“He’s new. Maybe she knew him before.”

Barber-surgeons traveled to do their work. They cut hair, pulled teeth, set bones, dosed people with herbs, and stitched up cuts.

Master Robbie continued. “I don’t know how long she’s been here. I imagine she gave Johan-bee his toothache remedy. Yesterday she trimmed Master Tuomo’s beard and Deeter-bee’s beard and toenails.”

“Deeter-bee?” She remembered the bee with the beard trimmed straight across the bottom. “Is he the oldest bee?”

Master Robbie nodded. “The historian of Lahnt.”

Elodie wondered if the details of the first theft might help them.

The door to the great hall was only a few yards away. “Is Dror-bee sweet on Mistress Sirka?”

“I see her watching him, but he doesn’t watch her.”

From inside the great hall a nasal voice sang another ditty.

There was no time now, but Elodie wished she’d had the time to ask about Master Tuomo and the courage to ask about Master Uwald. She thought, Are you safe with him, Master Robbie?

They entered.





CHAPTER NINETEEN



His Lordship surfaced from deep sleep and opened his eyes.

Fee fi! A net had been draped over the boulders. Six men stood outside, arrows nocked and aimed at him. Fo fum! A dead mink lay over the shoulder of one of them.

The hunter who’d shot the swift cried, “Ready!”

Before they could shoot, His Lordship bellowed, “Brunka Arnulf!”

The mountains carried the echo: Brunka Arnulf.

No one released an arrow. No one lowered his bow.

His Lordship spoke as softly as he could, explaining why he’d come to Zertrum and why Brunka Arnulf had been convinced he meant no harm. No one answered, as if he were speaking a foreign tongue, as if he were a talking bear, but a man was dispatched on horseback to find the brunka or Canute-bee.

More delay. The morning was half over.

The weak November sun failed to penetrate His Lordship’s shelter, and the hunter had reclaimed his cloak.

“I need a fire or I’ll be useless,” Count Jonty Um said. Nesspa, he thought, I miss you. Meenore, Elodie, if the mountain spews, you’ll never know what happened to me or why I didn’t return.





CHAPTER TWENTY



His Lordship wasn’t in the great hall. Disappointment made Elodie more tired than before.

IT was eating—and singing again.



“There once was a dragon called Aidan

who ceased dining on maiden,

preferring cabbage and beets,

ITs new delectable treats,

Deep-fried so they tasted like bacon.



“Ah, Mistress Elodie and the young squire have returned to breakfast with us.”

Calling her Mistress Elodie hid their connection—clever, but now, she realized, Master Robbie wouldn’t believe she was assisting IT in any extraordinary way.

A long board had been set on trestles near the front door so Masteress Meenore could partake. IT filled the head of the table, facing into the chamber, and High Brunka Marya perched on a tall stool at the foot. Bees and guests sat on benches on either side, all apparently having lost their fear of IT.

Albin’s face brightened when he saw Elodie. “The heroine returns.” He slid to make room for her in the middle of a bench, and she sat close enough to him that Master Robbie could squeeze in, too.

Master Uwald’s expression also lightened. “You’ve made a friend, Robbie?”

Master Robbie shrugged, his eyes on IT, his expression rapt.

Albin filled a bowl for Elodie, and Master Uwald, across the table, heaped one for Master Robbie.

“We may as well eat.” Master Tuomo cut himself a chunk of bread. “My sons will soon die, but we may as well eat. The land we’ve devoted our lives to will vanish, but we may as well eat.” He bit into the bread. “Everything tastes like sawdust.”

“Like sawdust?” Ludda-bee said. “What a thing to say!”

Elodie ate hungrily, passing food to diners nearby and accepting tidbits in return, as was the custom. The meal was a feast: fresh beets in cream sauce, pickled cabbage, pottage with lentils, goat cheese, and bread.

As a defense against the charge of sawdust, Ludda-bee recounted every step in her cooking: repeatedly brining the cabbage, skimming the cream for the beets, peeling each lentil.

When she drew breath, Master Robbie said, with his eyes still on IT (Elodie wondered how his spoon found his mouth), “The handkerchief that weeps still has not been returned.”